


You'll Never Walk Alone

by Katzedecimal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Based on a Tumblr Post, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4330935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Crazed:  fine cracks in ceramic glazing</i><br/>Crazed: to suffer a loss of control from dementia or insanity</p><p> </p><p>After two long years, Sherlock finally comes home, only to find that things are... not the same as they used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PipMer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/gifts).



> This work borrows heavily from Ariane DeVere's excellent transcripts of Sherlock season 3, over on LiveJournal. Thank you, Ariane *bow* 
> 
> This work is inspired by a post on Tumblr and (in a later chapter) incorporates some lines from the post. I've been unable to pinpoint exactly who wrote the lines, so whomever you are, thank you, they were brilliant and could not be improved upon (also please tell me who you are so I can credit you properly.)

“Moriarty’s network – took me two years to dismantle it.”

Mycroft flexed an eyebrow, “And you’re confident you have?

“The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle,” came the voice from the barber chair.

Mycrot shook his head, “Yes. You got yourself in deep there with…” he checked his report, “Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme.”

Sherlock smirked, “Colossal.”

Mycroft shut the file,”Anyway, you’re safe now. A small ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss.”

Sherlock paused, “What for?”

“For wading in,” Mycroft replied archly, “In case you’d forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu.”

Grunting in pain, Sherlock slowly sat up and stared at his brother angrily, “’Wading in’? You sat there and _watched_ me being beaten to a pulp.”

Mycroft frowned, “I got you out.”

“No, **I** got me out,” Sherlock snarled, “Why didn’t you intervene sooner?”

“Well, I couldn’t risk giving myself away, could I?” Mycroft sniffed, “It would have ruined everything.”

Sherlock glowered at him, “You were enjoying it.”

Mycroft leaned forward and snarled, “Listen: do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going ‘under cover,’ smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The noise? The _people?_ ” Sherlock stared at him silently, his expression screaming ‘You **do** remember who you’re talking to, right?’ After another moment, Mycroft sat back, “I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, “I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft. Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart.”

Mycroft’s assistant helped him into his shirt, adding, “One of our men died getting this information. All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there’s going to be a terror strike on London – a big one.”

Sherlock slipped his arms into his jacket, “And what about John Watson?” 

The woman threw a glance towards Mycroft. “John?”

“Mmm. Have you seen him?” 

Mycroft glanced at his assistant, who handed a folder to Sherlock. “You’ve kept a weather eye on him, of course,” Sherlock continued, opening the file and looking at the surveillance photos and printed report inside. “You haven’t been in touch at all, to prepare him?”

“No,” Mycroft said guardedly.

Sherlock snickered at the picture, “Well, we’ll have to get rid of that.”

“We?”

“That ridiculous moustache. He looks ancient!” Sherlock grinned, “I can’t be seen to be wandering around with an old man.” He closed the file and dropped it onto the desk. “I think I’ll surprise John,” he said, straightening his jacket, “He’ll be delighted!”

“…You think so?”

“Hmm. I’ll pop into Baker Street. Who knows – maybe jump out of a cake!”

Mycroft frowned, “Baker Street?”

Sherlock looked surprised, “It’s been two years. He can’t have got on with his life. I’ve been away.” Mycroft stared at him, his expression carefully neutral. “Where’s he going to be tonight?”

“How would I know?”

“You always know,” Sherlock clucked, “I think maybe I’ll just drop by. Now, where is he?”

“Where’s who?” Mycroft said carefully.

Sherlock frowned, “You know who.” Then he smiled with delight when Mycroft’s assistant appeared with his favourite coat. He slid his arms into the sleeves as she lifted it onto his shoulders. “Thank you,” he said and cocked an eyebrow at Mycroft, “… _blud._ ” Then he swirled out the door, leaving Mycroft and his assistant staring after him. 

“Sir?” the woman said after Sherlock was out of earshot, “Who is John Watson?”

“I have no idea,” Mycroft said, “But I think you’d better step up surveillance on my brother.” He tapped the file, “There is no one wearing a moustache in these images.”

* * * *   
John Watson picked up the wine list menu again and squinted at it. _Some enchanted evening, or at least I hope so,_ he thought, fiddling with his wine glass nervously. He was only vaguely aware of the waiter who had glided up behind him, and jumped only slightly when the waiter said, “Can I help you with anything, sir?”

John kept his gaze on the wine list, “Hi, yeah. I’m looking for a bottle of champagne – a good one. Er, it’s not really my area. What do you suggest?”

The waiter glanced over John’s shoulder. “Well, you cannot possibly go wrong, but, erm, if you’d like my personal recommendation,” he gestured with his pen, “This last one on the list is a favourite of mine.” John recognised the name sadly, remembering that it was one that Sherlock used to like. “It is – you might, in fact, say,” the waiter continued, “Like a face from the past.”

John sighed sadly, then shrugged it off and snapped the wine menu shut, “Great. I’ll have that one, please.” He grabbed his red wine and took a deep swig, staring out the window. 

“It is familiar, but, er, with the quality of surprise!” the waiter tried again and something about his accent was grating on John’s nerves. Possibly because it sounded more Hollywood French than French.

“Great,” he snapped, “Surprise me, then.” The waiter might have muttered something else but John had ceased to pay attention. He fidgeted nervously with his pocket then reached in and pulled out the small, red velvet box. He opened it looked at the diamond ring within, then closed it and put it on the table in front of him. He fidgeted with it until he felt a hand fall onto his shoulder. He looked up then snatched the box off the table and shoved it back into his pocket as his date rejoined him. 

“Sorry that took so long,” she smiled, “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am. Fine.”

She smiled at him again and his eyes glowed with adoration. “Now then,” she said, “What did you want to ask me?”

John’s smile dropped as his nerves took over again. “Right,” He cleared his throat, glanced away, then glanced back, “Erm, so… Mary. Listen, um… I know it hasn’t been long… I mean, I know we haven’t known each other for a long time…” 

Mary’s eyes glittered, “Go on.”

“Right, um,” John cleared his throat again, “Yes, I will.” And again. “As you know, these last couple of years haven’t been easy for me and meeting you…” He met her eyes and nodded, “Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened. So, um… If you’ll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um…” And yet again. Mary giggled. “If you could see your way to…”

The waiter with the annoying French-ish accent chose that moment to glide up with the champagne John had ordered, “Sir, I think you’ll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking.” Mary put her hand to her face and her shoulders shook with suppressed giggles. “It has all the qualities of the old, with some of the colour of the new.”

“No, sorry, not now, please,” John said, gazing determinedly at Mary. 

“Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers…” That was so cheesy, Mary nearly laughed out loud. John felt his nervous annoyance rapidly turning into anger. “Suddenly one is aware of staring into the face of an old friend.”

John smiled a tight smile and looked up, “No, look, seriously, could you just…” He jerked and trailed off in shock.

“Interesting thing, a tuxedo,” Sherlock said mildly, “It lends distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters.”

John looked at Mary then away, feeling his eyes stinging with tears. 

“John?” Mary said, concerned, “John, what is it?”

John stood up, breathing heavily, staring at Sherlock. 

Sherlock shrugged awkwardly, “Well, short version… Not dead.”

Mary looked from the waiter to John, seeing John’s face full of shock, pain, anger and… “Oh no! You’re…?”

The waiter - Sherlock - glanced at her, “Oh yes.”

“Oh my God!” Mary gasped, “But… You died! You’re _dead!_ ”

“No, I’m quite sure. I checked. Excuse me,” Sherlock plucked her napkin from the table and started wiping off his pencil moustache. He looked at John and grinned a little, “Does um, does yours rub off, too?” But John’s smile was the tight one that wasn’t a smile at all, the smile he got when he was one hundred percent done. Sherlock swallowed nervously and glanced down, “Okay, suddenly realising I probably owe you some sort of an apology…”

John slammed his fist onto the table, startling everybody. “I thought,” he whispered, “I thought…” 

“Alright, just… John?” Mary was wittering, “John, just keep…”

John sucked in a long breath and looked up. Sherlock looked awkward, Mary looked confused. “I thought… you were dead,” John groaned, “Hmm? You let me grieve! Hmm? How could you do that?” Sherlock bit his lip, unable to look at John, “How? **_How?_** ”

Sherlock started backing away as John approached, “Wait! …Before you do anything that you might regret…” John bunched his fists. “One question! Just let me ask one question!” John stared at him, face black with fury, and waited. Sherlock raised a hand and gestured towards his own lip, grinning a little, “Are you really gonna keep that?”

* * * *

“Seriously, it’s not a joke?” Sherlock grinned from behind the napkin he held to his bleeding nose, “You’re really keeping this?”

They had relocated to a kebab shop, after being kicked out of the restaurant for brawling. John stared at Sherlock, his gaze hard and defiant, “Yes. Mary likes it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked at Mary. “Mmmmm, no she doesn’t.”

“She does,” John affirmed, then looked at Mary and actually did a double take, “What?! Oh, _brilliant._ ”

Mary spread her hands apologetically, “I’m sorry, John. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Oh yes, I’ve really missed **this,** ” John said, jabbing an angry thumb at Sherlock and his deductions. He stared at Sherlock and hissed, “One word, Sherlock! That’s all I would have needed! One word to let me know that you were alive.”

“I’ve nearly been in contact so many times,” Sherlock said softly. John stared at him, feeling his insides twisting with so many feelings, he couldn’t even begin to put names to any of them. “But I worried that you might, you know… Say something indiscreet.”

“What?!” John barked, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“You know… Let the cat out of the bag, so to speak.”

John stared at him, then at Mary, “Why am I the only one who thinks that this is wrong? The only one reacting like a human being?!”

“ **Over** -reacting,” Sherlock huffed.

John went beserk. “’ _Over-reacting?!_ ’” he bellowed, “So you fake your own death…”

“Shh!”

“And you waltz in here large as bloody life…”

“ _Shh!_ ” 

“But I’m not supposed to have a problem with that, no,” John screamed, “Because Sherlock Holmes thinks it’s a perfectly okay thing to do!”

“Shut up, John! I don’t want **everyone** knowing I’m still alive!” Sherlock yelled.

“Oh, so it’s still a secret, is it?” John hollared.

“Yes! It’s still a secret!” Sherlock hollared back. Abruptly he remembered where he was and looked around. The other customers in the kebab shop were all staring at him in shocked silence. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Oh, I swear to God,” John said sarcastically. Then he too remembered about the other customers and blew out a long breath. 

Sherlock stepped closer and spoke in quiet tones, “London is in danger, John. There’s an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help.”

John stared at him for a long moment then turned to stare disbelievingly at Mary, who shrugged. He looked back at Sherlock, “ **My** help?”

Sherlock nodded gravely, staring at him. Then he grinned, “Oh you **have** missed this! Admit it! The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world…”

Which was when John nutted him in the face. 

Having been thrown out of the kebab shop, John stalked down the sidewalk in search of a cab, leaving Mary to stand next to Sherlock, who had a napkin to his nose again. “I don’t understand,” he heard Sherlock say plaintively, “I said I’m sorry. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

John shook his head and tuned him out, raising his hand and almost instantly catching the attention of a cabby. He opened the cab door and called, “Mary!” She smiled at Sherlock and patted his arm then walked over to John and got into the cab. “Can you believe his nerve?!” John said indignantly as the cab drove away.

Mary was smiling. “I like him,” she said. 

John’s jaw dropped. “ _What?_ ”

Mary shrugged and looked out the window, still smiling, “I like him.”

John felt completely baffled. He turned and looked back towards the kebab shop but Sherlock was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspector Lestrade suspects that Sherlock is not quite as alright as he seems.

Inspector Greg Lestrade tore down the police tape. “This one’s got us all baffled,” he said as he opened the door and led Sherlock and his companion down the stairs. “The media are calling it ‘The Skeleton Mystery.’”

“Mmm. I don’t doubt it,” Sherlock said, and stepped forward to examine the scene. 

Lestrade watched Sherlock approach the corpse, holding a syringe in its skeletal hand, and lay out his tools to begin his detailed examination. He bent to sniff at it, frowning as he sought to identify the odours. Then he straightened up and closed his magnifying glass. 

“What is it?” his assistant asked. After a moment, Lestrade placed her as Miss Molly Hooper, Sherlock’s lab assistant friend who sometimes helped him out and got him materials for his experiments. They watched Sherlock take out his mobile and hold it high, trying to get signal. “You’re onto something, aren’t you?” she asked. 

“Mmm. Maybe,” Sherlock replied absently. He was quiet for a few moments then suddenly whispered, “Shut up, John.”

Lestrade and Molly both froze. Molly found her voice first, “What?”

Sherlock turned around and looked at her as though just noticing her. “Hmm? Nothing.” He walked around the other side of the table to continue examining the scene. He lifted the lapel of the corpse’s jacket carefully with tweezers and peered underneath. 

Lestrade approached him and quietly asked, “This is going to be your new arrangement, is it?”

“Just giving it a go,” Sherlock replied with a heavy sigh, “John’s not really in the picture anymore.” He stepped back a few paces to look at the crime scene as a whole, again. 

Molly walked over to the body and bent to examine its neck. After a moment, Sherlock joined her. “Male, forty to fifty years old,” she said, a little hesitantly. “Um, sorry, did you want to…?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Be my guest.”

She bent to continue her examination then startled when Sherlock abruptly snarled “Shut up!” under his breath. She glanced nervously at him, then at Lestrade. Clearly nettled with himself, Sherlock opened his magnifying glass again and stooped to look more closely at the hand holding the syringe. “It doesn’t make sense,” she said finally. She looked at Sherlock, “This body can’t be more than…”

“…Six months old,” he finished with her. They grinned. A moment later, Sherlock found the book and laid it down. “I won’t insult your intelligence by explaining it to you,” he sighed. 

Lestrade looked at him sharply, then said, “No, please, insult away.”

Sherlock packed up his pouch and was about to turn towards the door when he stopped and seemed momentarily confused. Then he turned back to Lestrade, looking somewhat cowed. “The… the corpse is.. S-six months old. It’s dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It’s been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-east, judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire-damage sale,” he dug out his mobile and showed it to Lestrade, “A week ago.”

Lestrade nodded grimly, “So it’s a fake.”

“Yes.”

Molly looked confused, “But why would someone go to all that trouble?”

“Why indeed, John?” Sherlock said and disappeared back up the stairs. 

Molly looked awkwardly at Inspector Lestrade, who leaned towards her and asked very quietly, “Who is John?”

She shook her head, “I don’t know. He’s been like that ever since he got back. He says he lived with this Doctor John Watson back in Baker Street but…”

“Sherlock hasn’t lived on Baker Street for years,” Lestrade nodded grimly, “He got kicked out after the landlady, Mrs. Turner, passed away. He lived on Montague Street. Didn’t get on with his landlord.”

Molly nodded, “I guess he… didn’t remember that. He’s back at Baker Street now, though. It’s changed hands again and the new owner, I guess she was a client of his, once. Mrs. Hudson. Only…”

“Only?”

Molly swallowed, “Only now, I think he thinks it was **always** Mrs. Hudson.”

Lestrade pressed his lips together, “How long has this been going on?”

“Ever since he got back.”

Lestrade scrubbed his fingers through his hair, remembering how Sherlock had groaned when Lestrade had hugged him in the car park, the blood on his nose and lip, how he’d moved as though in pain. He blew out his breath in a heavy sigh, “Oh boy.”

“Do you know what’s going on?” Molly asked. 

Lestrade shook his head, “No. But I have my suspicions.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain John Watson, M.D. is a veteran of Kandahar and Helmand and a longtime friend of Sherlock Holmes ..... isn't he?

“So.. John Watson,” Inspector Lestrade said carefully, “No longer in the picture, you said?” He treating Sherlock to tea after another successful case. 

Sherlock took the paper cup with a sigh and sipped. “No,” he said finally, “He says nothing will change, says he’ll still join me on cases after he gets married but…” He trailed off with another sad sigh, then shrugged, “Mind you, he got bored enough with his everyday surgery. Only to be expected of a veteran, really.”

“Oh? He served?”

Sherlock scowled at him, “It hasn’t been **that** long, George, only a few years.”

“A _busy_ few years and **you** can’t even remember that my name is **Greg.** ”

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and tipped his head, conceding the point. “Yes, he served. RMAC captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, served in Kandahar and Helmand. We met after he was shot. His experience and knowledge of trauma medicine were very useful on cases.” He looked pointedly at the inspector but Greg was nodding. 

“We’ve had a lead,” Greg said tentatively, “We were able to prove that Richard Brook was hired to portray ‘Moriarty’ and we’ve traced him back to some **really** high-powered newspaper tycoon. This chap’s got his fingers into _everything_ but he’s been damned hard to reach. He’s tied into almost every blackmail case we’ve had.”

“Magnussen,” Sherlock snarled.

Lestrade nodded, “Your work tore down almost all of the channels feeding him. We’ve actually got a chance.”

“It still won’t be easy. He has _protection._ ”

“You were gone a long time,” Lestrade said, “Where did you go? What happened after you… left?”

But Sherlock sipped his tea and didn’t answer.

* * * *

John and Sherlock were sitting on the park bench across from the guards, watching the tourists snapping photographs. Sherlock’s client had complained of a stalker but none of the tourists stood out as unusual. 

“Do you think they give them classes?” Sherlock said suddenly. 

John looked around at him, “Classes?”

“How to resist the temptation to scratch their behinds?”

A grin spread across John’s face. “Afferent neurons in the peripheral nervous system,” he said. Sherlock glanced at him. “Bum itch.”

“Oh.” They watched silently for a few more moments. “Why don’t you see your Major Sholto anymore? He was decorated, wasn’t he? A war hero?”

“Not to everyone,” John sighed, “He led a team of new recruits into battle. Standard procedure only it went wrong. He was the only survivor.”

“I see.”

John looked off, watching another tourist setting up for a photograph. “You know it won’t alter anything, right? Me and Mary getting married? We’ll still be doing all this. If you were worrying.”

“Wasn’t worried,” Sherlock sniffed. 

John chuckled and looked down then looked up at the sound of a small child. “See, the thing about Mary… She’s completely turned my life around, changed everything. Only two people have done that, and the other is…” He turned but Sherlock had vanished. “…A complete dickhead.”

* * * * 

Mycroft sat primly on the sofa and looked around himself at the flat. He gazed wonderingly at the lurid happy face drawn on the wallpaper in yellow spraypaint. “You appear to have settled in quite nicely,” he said.

Sherlock emerged from the kitchen with a cup of tea and the frown he habitually wore for his brother’s visits. The frown broke into a brief smile as he looked around the flat, “Yes, it’s as if I never left.”

Mycroft frowned, “You did leave, though. You lived in Montague Street.”

“For a while, yes,” Sherlock said, “Until I moved back here with John.”

“You never told me you lived here before?” John said, sipping his own cup. 

Sherlock looked at him in surprise, “Didn’t I? Oh. Well, yes. I’ve lived here for a long time.”

Mycroft looked from the chair to Sherlock, “Sherlock… To whom are you talking?”

Sherlock scowled at him, “John, obviously.”

Mycroft shook his head slowly, “Sherlock… There’s no one there.”

Sherlock stared at him. “What? Of course he is, are you going blind? He’s right there!” He pointed at the chair where John had been sitting but John had vanished. He froze. 

“The chair is empty, Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly, “There is no one in it. There never has been anyone in it.”

Sherlock looked around, “John?”

“Mummy and Daddy were most upset when you kicked them out because you thought your imaginary friend had arrived.”

“John is **not** imaginary!” Sherlock snarled, “And he was right here! You must have chased him off with your odious arrogance.”

Mycroft stood up and lightly touched his brother’s arm, “There is no John Watson. There never has been. You invented him.”

Sherlock shook him off, “Leave me alone!”

“You _are_ alone.”

“Get out,” Sherlock snapped, “GET OUT.” 

Mycroft collected his coat and umbrella, “Very well. But you need help, Sherlock.”

**_”GET OUT,”_** Sherlock screamed. Mycroft turned tail and hastened down the steps. 

“Oh my goodness, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door a few minutes later, “What was all the shouting?”

Sherlock was still breathing heavily and trying to regain his calm. “He told me John is imaginary. Like he’s some sort of delusion. John is _not_ a delusion. You know him. You were his _landlady_. You _know_ he’s real.” Mrs. Hudson was staring at him with her mouth open and slightly working, unable to think of what to say. “…Isn’t he?”

“I… Sherlock, I…”

Sherlock pressed his lips together grimly, then spun around and stormed into his bedroom, and slammed the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When he starts doubting John, he starts to doubt himself, and then he starts to fall apart. He starts losing his confidence, then his deductive abilities, and after that it’ll be a downward spiral to a crash.”

“They came through here… There was a fight… here,” Sherlock said, demonstrating how the events took place. 

“Sherlock,” John called, “Come take a look at this. Here, this puncture wound. I think he might have been drugged **first.** ”

Sherlock sat back on his heels and steepled his fingers under his chin, “Drugged, then struggled with his captors, then strangled. Even more interesting.”

“He was strangled post mortem but not much post mortem,” John said. He stood up and snapped his gloves off. 

Sherlock stood up as well, “Huh. Nice work, J—*” 

Donovan and the forensic analyst were staring at him. John had vanished. He felt Lestrade come up near his elbow. 

“Nice work indeed,” the inspector murmured. Louder, he said, “We’ll get a toxicology report, now we know we need one.” The forensic analyst looked away. Lestrade took Sherlock’s elbow and gently steered him away from the crime scene, “C’mon, we’ll grab a cuppa.”

They walked a while in silence until they reached a cafe. “You’re off your game today,” Lestrade said quietly.

Sherlock looked stony. “You don’t see John, do you,” he said finally, “That’s why you don’t remember him. You don’t see him.” Lestrade sipped his tea in silence. “My brother called him my ‘imaginary friend.’”

Lestrade sighed, “I’ll tell you what I do see. I saw you point out critical evidence that’s saved us from going down the wrong path. I saw you save a woman’s life. I saw you recover a priceless artifact. Each time, you did it on information you got from John. I see you being the best there is at what you do. You always were; now you’re even better.”

“But… If John’s…”

“Donovan thought you might be psychic. Seeing John’s spirit,” Lestrade grinned at Sherlock’s sneer. He tipped his head and asked, “You were in a lot of pain when you found me at the car park. You were injured. I’m sorry I didn’t realise it at the time.” Sherlock said nothing. Lestrade took another sip of his tea. “We’ll do it the way we’ve always done. ‘Tip from the public,’ alright?”

Sherlock looked away. 

* * * *

“Your nine o’clock, Mr. Holmes.”

“Thank you, send him in.” Mycroft looked up as his assistant ushered the visitor through the door, “Ah, Detective Inspector, how nice to see you again. And to what do I owe this visit?”

Lestrade cut straight to the point, “I need you to stop telling Sherlock that he’s delusional.”

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows then lowered one into a Look. “You believe he is _not?_ He has _invented_ an imaginary friend.”

“I believe he is suffering from trauma-related mental stress and his mind has invented a way to cope.” Lestrade stared Mycroft down. Mycroft had the grace to look away. “Look, where did he go while he was dead?”

“That’s classified…”

“When he came back, when he found me, he was hiding signs of injury, _severe_ injuries, and he was showing a lot of the signs of chronic sleep deprivation. What the hell happened to him while he was gone?”

_You broke in here for a reason. Just tell us why and you can sleep. Do you remember sleep?_ Mycroft gazed at his desk blotter. “A great many things happened,” he said finally, “In a great many places. The network was international. He went everywhere - Mexico, the U.S., Japan, India, South Africa, Afghanistan, Serbia…”

“Afghanistan?!”

Mycroft nodded, “One of the unfortunate missions. It was one of the times he was apprehended.”

“’Apprehended,’” Lestrade repeated in a flat voice, “And then what?”

“He was interrogated, of course.”

“How did he get out?”

“He was rescued by a platoon of British soldiers.”

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully, “You said it was ‘one of the times’ he was captured and interrogated, so there were others? And the last one was right before he came home, am I right?”

“I rescued him myself,” Mycroft said archly then rolled his eyes, “Not that he sees it that way.”

“And you let him leave?? Go out into London like that?”

“He seemed perfectly fine,” Mycroft said doubtfully, “Until he insisted he had to see this fictional John Watson of his.”

“You seem pretty convinced of that. That he’s not real.”

“I did my research,” Mycroft said stiffly. 

“Right, so… where’s he getting the medical knowledge from, then?”

Mycroft frowned, “What do you mean?”

“A squadron of Her Majesty’s guards watched him save a man’s life, who’d been stabbed.”

“Both of us have taken our first-responder certificates.”

“Really? Does a first-responder certificate qualify you to diagnose a tension pneumothorax? Because I know for a fact it doesn’t,” Lestrade said, “I **watched** him perform an _emergency needle aspiration_ on one of our fallen officers. **That’s** not first-response, **that’s** emergency trauma medicine. He said he just followed _John’s_ instructions. And when did he start carrying medical supplies in his coat? The kind of medical supplies that would allow him to perform a needle decompression?”

“I have no explanation for that,” Mycroft said finally, “He must have observed it somewhere.”

“How much do you know about John?”

“He’s an **hallucination,** Inspector.”

“So you haven’t asked about him?”

“Why would I?”

“Because according to Sherlock, John served in Kandahar and Helmand. In _Afghanistan._ ”

Mycroft stared at him in shocked silence for several minutes. “I have searched the registries, Inspector. I have found no trace of a Doctor John Watson.”

Lestrade scrubbed his fingers through his hair, “He said John served in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“That regiment no longer exists,” Mycroft said, “They have been the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers since 1968.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lestrade sighed, “I wondered if it might be a sign that this John Watson was… I dunno, erased, protected, change of identity, something like that, maybe.”

“In any case, I don’t see how this is helping my brother.”

Lestrade shot him a Look, “You don’t? Prolonged sleep deprivation can lead to psychosis, especially with other kinds of tortures mixed in. Sherlock hasn’t had a psychotic break yet but it’s close and I think his brain knows it and it’s created an army doctor, a soldier doctor, to help keep himself together. He’s shattered but he hasn’t broken apart yet. He’s like… he’s like a ceramic plate, he’s like ice, all covered in fine little cracks but it’ll still hold together _as long as you don’t put too much stress on it_.”

Mycroft stared at him for a few moments. “And you believe I’m putting stress on him by telling him about his delusions.”

Lestrade nodded, “Look, I know it sounds crazy… actually, it _is_ crazy. But not **that** crazy. It’s the only area where he’s diverged from the consensual reality. As long as he has John, he’s fully functional, competent and stable. But when he starts doubting John, he starts to doubt himself, and then he starts to fall apart. He starts losing his confidence, then his deductive abilities, and after that it’ll be a downward spiral to a crash.”

* * * *

John walked through the dilapidated hallway, still shaking the ache out of his hand. “Isaac? Isaac Whitney?” he called softly. He walked towards two people lying on mattresses, “Isaac?” One of them lifted a hand and gazed at him unsteadily. John knelt beside him, “Can you sit up for me?”

“Doctor Watson?” the young man slurred, “Where am I?”

“The arse end of the universe with the scum of the earth,” John replied, examining the youth’s eyes. 

“Did you come for me?”

“Do you think I know a lot of people here?” John smirked. He continued his examination as the person on the other mattress rolled over. 

“Oh, hello, John. Didn’t expect to see you here.” John’s eyes widened and he turned to stare at Sherlock. “Did you come for me, too?”

After the shouting started, Sherlock punched the door off the fire escape and hopped down, “For God’s sake, John, I’m on a case!”

“A month!” John hollared, on Sherlock’s heels, “That’s all it took! One month! You could have called me!”

“I’m _working!_ ”

John hopped down onto the bin, wincing as his ankle twisted. “Sherlock Holmes in a drug den, how’s **that** gonna look?!”

“I’m undercover!” Sherlock protested as he hopped down onto the sidewalk.

“No you’re not.”

“Well I’m not **_NOW_** ,” Sherlock flailed angrily.

A car pulled up and Mary rolled down the window to glare at him, “In. Both of you. Quickly.” John got in, staring hard at Sherlock, who sighed and got into the back seat. “We’re taking him home, then?”

John glared at Sherlock a moment longer before shaking his head. “No, we’re not going home,” he told Mary, “We’re going to Bart’s. I’m calling Molly.”

“What for?” Mary asked. 

John put his phone to his ear, “Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a j—*” He looked back at Sherlock but Sherlock had disappeared.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an East Wind coming... but for whom?

“Mr. Holmes? Sir, your brother has been shot.”

* * * * 

“How is he?”

Mycroft looked up, “He is still in critical but stable condition.”

Inspector Lestrade blew out a breath and ran a hand over his head, “Heard it was pretty touch and go there.”

“He _died_ ,” Mycroft said flatly, “Cardiac arrest for several minutes. They managed to resuscitate him, however. They’re still evaluating him for possible damage to his brain.”

Lestrade grimaced. “Is he conscious? Has he said anything that might help identify the shooter?”

“Not the shooter, no,” Mycroft said, “He did speak, however. When they revived him, the first word he said was ‘John.’” He blew out a heavy sigh, “Imaginary friend or not, apparently this ‘John’ is important enough for him to fight death off and win.”

Lestrade digested that for several moments. “What happened, exactly?”

“It’s believed he interrupted an assassination attempt on Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“Oh so the bastard’s chronic blackmailing finally caught up to him.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft nodded, “Sherlock has a high-profile client who has asked him to intervene, and unfortunately for my brother, he had atrocious timing.”

“God, isn’t that an understatement,” Lestrade sighed. 

They sat in silence for several minutes. “They’d lost him,” Mycroft said finally, “They were giving up, when suddenly they had a heartbeat again.” Lestrade blinked. “All he could say was that John was in danger.”

Lestrade sat back with another frustrated sigh, “And we still don’t know who he is.”

* * * * 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes. That’s the whole of it, if you’re looking for baby names.”

John chuckled, “No, we’ve had a scan. We’re pretty sure it’s a girl.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“So, the game is over, then,” John said quietly. 

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said softly, “The East Wind takes us all, in the end.”

“What about you? Where are you actually going now?”

Sherlock blew out a sigh, “Some undercover work in Eastern Europe. Six months, my brother estimates. He’s never wrong.”

“And then what?”

But Sherlock was silent for too long. “Who knows,” he shrugged, gazing off.

John stared at him then nodded and looked away.

“John?” John looked back as Sherlock spoke again, “There’s something I… I always **meant** to say it but then never have…” He took a deep breath and blurted out, “Sherlockisalsoagirl’sname.”

John broke into laughter, “We’re not naming our daughter after you.”

“I think it could work,” Sherlock said meekly. Too meekly. John Looked at him and Sherlock lowered his eyes. _No._ They shook hands, for too long, then Sherlock turned to board the plane.

_No. No._

John and Mary stood beside their car, holding hands and watching as the plane taxied onto the runway. _No! **NO.** This isn’t happening._ It lifted off into the sky. Mary slipped her arm around John’s waist as they watched it fly off into the distance.

_** NO. ** _

…then faded to black and…

_**This is NOT happening!** _

Greg Lestrade took a pull off his beer. He’d been mostly ignoring the match on the pub’s telly until someone yelled, “Oi! What’s up with the telly? There’s something wrong with the telly, mate!” He glanced up to see it fizzing into intermittent snow and white noise. “Give it a whack,” another customer suggested. Greg looked up at the screen as the picture started to clear. But it wasn’t reforming into the game. 

_”Mrs. Watson? Your brother…”_

_“Oh sorry, wrong Mrs. Watson. It’s my wife Harry you want. She’s just popped off to the loo, she’ll be right… oh here she comes.”_

His mouth slowly dropped open in shock. 

_”Hello Doctor. What’s the news?”_

“But he’s dead!” Mary cried, staring at the airport television screen, “Moriarty. You told me he was dead!”

_”There’s been some increase in brain activity but as of yet no sign that he’s emerging from coma.”_

_“But there’s an increase in activity? What does that mean, then?”_

“Absolutely, yes,” John nodded, “Blew his own brains out.”

_“Maybe he’s dreaming, Harry, hon.”_

_“That’s a possibility. Many patients who’ve emerged from their comas reported having very vivid, lifelike dreams.”_

_“Thank you, Doctor.”_

Mary stared at him, “So how can he be back?”

_”I wonder what he dreams about?”_

_”A happy life, I hope.”_

John shook his head and looked out to where Sherlock’s plane was coming back in to land. “There’s an East Wind coming.”


End file.
